Sticky Little Fingers

Roll over and close your eyes. Maybe mom didn't just wake you up. Maybe it was a dream. Go back to sleep.
Moan when you know that it wasn't a dream, and that you have to get up. You have to get up to do something that you want to do. You don't want to get up.
Get out of bed. Find that floral dress that you like. Put it on. Spend too much time searching for your blue polka-dot socks. Put your feet into navy blue sneakers. Give yourself a once over.
"I guess you look decent" you tell yourself. You never look good, but today isn't particularly bad. You still need to brush your teeth. You still need to do your hair. You still need to put on makeup. You still need to finish your summer homework, but you can get to that later.
Put your hair into a light pink bow, make your eyeliner look like it wasn't done by a four year old with a crayon.
"You look more decent. Now you'll fit in places that aren't mostly populated by sad teenagers with not-enough-energy."
Destination: Flying Saucer Pizza. Company: A friend from a far off place, and your mother. Time: 12:07 pm.
You are outnumbered. You are the only vegetarian. Are you causing problems? Yes you are. Let them get pepperoni. You are ok with consuming some Coca-Cola and left crusts for lunch. It's not like you're that hungry.
The group settles on a meatless pizza with fig sauce and broccoli. You still feel like you're getting in the way of things, even though your group members seem to be enjoying the choice much more than you are. After all, you feel your stomach expanding with every bite you take.
Destination: Salem Willows. Company: Has not changed. Time: 1:34 pm.
Enter the arcade. Your mother hands you eight quarters. Two dollars. This responsibility makes you feel childlike, knowing that you're going to essentially spend it on Tootsie Rolls. You will later feel guilty for eating these.
You won at least three times the amount of tickets that your friend won. This makes you feel horrible. She came to America and is now watching you be exponentially better at things than her, and that is not a comfortable feeling. Leave the arcade. Walk towards the ice cream stand.
Order a small mint Oreo ice cream in a cone. This is your favorite flavor. You are already full from the pizza, but continue to eat the ice cream. You wish you had gotten a kiddie size.
You walk towards the ocean, carrying on conversation about college in America versus Russia. Your stomach churns with every word. The thought of living on your own and paying for further education makes you feel sick.
"It is only in two years, good luck, bozo." That's the voice in your head.
Your ice cream starts to drip onto your fingers. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. No, you can't start crying right now. You're in public. You're with two other people. There's nothing to cry about. You've been through worse.
More ice cream drip on your hand. There's sticky cream on your friend now, too. You walk back to the ice cream stand to get napkins. It's time to go home.
Once you get home, you look in the mirror. Your chubby, sticky hands connect to balloonish arms, clinging to a lumpy back which winds into a bubble of a stomach. You need to change into something that hides this.
The floral dress, polka dot socks, and navy blue shoes come off, and you trade them for old gray sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. You can hide in these clothes.
To start, your day was ok, you looked better than normal, but as the hours passed and ice cream dripped onto your hands, you realized that there are little things that make you want to return to morning, and never leave your bed.